“I told you to be wary of Cara,” he said, dropping a summons to the palace into her hands.

“Yes, Marc.” She stared at the scroll, unwilling to break the seal. “So you did.”

Marc sat down on the bench beside her, slid his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face to the light. “Ooh.” He scrunched up his brow. “A split lip is going to play right into her hands.”

“Yes, I think you’ve made your point.”

She drew away. If she still appeared tender and bruised from the fight with Orla, he could have no idea how raw she felt inside. It were as if she’d been hollowed out with a knife: her core cut clean away. Orla was gone; gone forever. And the impending threat of disgrace and exile was enough to drive her out of her mind.

With a long, throaty sigh, she unravelled the parchment and read aloud:

“At the behest of Lady Cara Thæc, the palace summons Halanya X, duellist and former imperial ward, to answer for her actions in bringing shame upon the court. May she present herself at midday on…Blah, blah, blah.” Hal rolled the scroll back up, leant against the wall, closed her eyes and tapped her forehead with the parchment. “What can they do?” she asked at last. “Kick me out?” She turned to look at Marc.

“Well…” he stroked his chin. “That is one option. The others include…”

“Wait!” She raised a hand. “I don’t even want to hear it.” Grabbing her coat, she jumped to her feet. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

Early spring and the first thaws saw water cascading from gutters and rooftops; slabs of snow thudding to the ground and splintering to be trodden beneath passing boots into a grimy mush. The river rose: there was talk of flooding, and Hal wondered whether to seek refuge in the academy. But she had grown to love her little refuge too dearly. And eventually the Col sank back in upon itself, as if it had stirred briefly like a restless animal and was now lying back down to sleep.

She sought to push thoughts of Orla far from her mind; rarely visiting The Emperor in case their paths crossed. A part of her still yearned for the soldier’s embrace, but she couldn’t allow herself to be swept up again in all that fury; all that rage and pain. Hal felt for Orla; for the wounds to her mind and body which the desert had inflicted. And, the duellist told herself, she would have done all she could to help heal those wounds. But Orla had seemed intent on turning her own anger against Hal. And that was more than she could bear.

So Hal channelled her own energies into duelling, surprising herself and Beric: delighting those who crowded into the arena to watch her fight, her fame spreading as word leaked out of the courtier who’d exchanged wealth and privilege for a rapier and the duelling circle. Until one evening, when the sun had almost bled out and the streets were rich with shadow. And someone rapped hard three times on her door.

Weary after a day of training, Hal hauled herself up off the bench and padded barefoot across the floorboards, easing aside the door.

She stared into green eyes and cursed. “I thought I said it was over between us.”

Orla had regained some of the muscle she’d lost after Yegdan. She was dressed not in gambeson and leathers, but in linen shirt and canvas breeches; greatcoat and boots. And her gaze was cool, not crazed, as she leant against the door frame with her hands in her pockets, her lips sealed and fine and her face unreadable. Hal shivered.

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” Orla said.

“You suppose?”

“Yes. And I’d rather not deliver it out here in the street.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear it anyway,” Hal said, closing the door.

The soldier wedged her boot between frame and threshold. “Just give me a chance.”

Resting her head against the hard, damp oak, Hal sighed. “You set out to hurt me.”

“I didn’t! I didn’t know what I was doing. I was injured; torn apart. I’m better now. I’m whole again.”

“Are you?”

Orla paused and turned to look back up the street, chewing on her lower lip. “Yes,” she said after a few moments. “I am.”

Hal sucked in her cheeks, deliberating. She had the strength to kick Orla’s foot out of the way, slam the door in her face and bolt it fast. But part of her had tensed under Orla’s gaze. Part of her wanted her lover back; the woman who had drawn her on with hard words, who’d made love to her in the street, whose body had curved into her own. With a groan, she pulled open the door. Orla’s smile was brief and tight as she pushed past Hal and into the room.

“Still living in this dump, then?”

“And where else would I be?” Hal asked, closing and locking the door.

“Well, I’d have thought…with all your renown…I heard you’re drawing in the spectators.”

They stared at each other, the silence prickling Hal’s skin. And then Orla lowered her head.

“I am truly sorry,” she said at last. “After…after all that happened…down there in the south. I wasn’t myself. I … came loose for a while. I fell apart.”

“And now you’re back?”

When Orla raised her head, Hal saw that her eyes were glistening. “I’ve stitched up the holes,” the soldier said.

“I see.” Hal folded her arms across her chest, sinking back into herself, unable to look back at Orla. The soldier stood and she stood, as if waiting, hovering on a mountain ledge or cliff, daring each other to jump.

“Hal, I missed you. I understand why you walked away…”

“You hurt me, Orla! You humiliated me; and yourself.”

“I was at a loss! I needed you, but my mind was a wild place. I had such thoughts, Hal…such dreams after….after it all. Just the thought of sleeping filled me with dread. My dreams were full of horrors.” A single tear spilled, inching down her cheek. She trembled. And without thinking, Hal took her in her arms. Against herself, against her own will, she revelled in the heat of Orla’s body; in the hint of sinew and muscle beneath her fingertips, in the brush of Orla’s lips against her ear.

Once finished, the story will be available as bonus material in Hal and the box set of The Duellist series.

Chapter Six: “Chaos:”

The sun cast no warmth, its weak light pushing at the dirty pane of glass, the room now sliding into sight. That meant the morning was well advanced and Hal was already late for training. Extending a hand beneath the heap of blankets and furs, she touched Orla’s shoulder, shaking her awake…

…and within seconds found herself pinned to the ground; the fine edge of a knife blade nicking at her throat. Hal stared up at Orla, paralysed with shock. The soldier seemed not even to see her, her sleep-blind eyes wild, her fingers pressed around Hal’s neck.

“Orla!” Her voice came out as a strangled whisper. “Orla! It’s me!”

Orla grunted lightly, still clutching her neck. A thin skein of blood trickled over Hal’s skin, spooling onto the floor.

“Orla!”

The soldier shuddered as if she were being dragged from one reality and into another. Her eyes sharpened and focussed and the knife hit the floor with a metallic ring as she loosened her fingers from Hal’s throat. The duellist breathed out hard in relief.

“Hal?” Orla’s face crumpled with grief as she sank back. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s…” Hal put her fingers to the tiny wound, stemming the pulse of blood. “…it’s alright,” she lied.

“It’s not alright. I could have killed you.” She cradled her head in her arms, her entire body rocking.

Warily, Hal watched until compassion overcame fear and she slipped an arm around Orla’s shoulders. “Orla, what is it? What’s wrong? What happened to you?”

With a low moan, Orla rested her head against Hal’s shoulder. “We’re not to say.”

“What?”

“We’re not to speak of it.”

“Orla…” but she couldn’t frame another word. The soldier had staggered back into her arms: weakened, changed, and now alluding to…what? A crime? An event too awful to be spoken of…something which had drained her of her very self; which had chipped away the hardness and the scorn to reveal the brittle, damaged woman beneath.

She loosened Hal’s embrace and then unlaced her gambeson. Hal stared: horrified, transfixed. A fresh scar ran from Orla’s hip to the base of her ribs: a livid stretch of flesh, butchered and then healed with rough stitches.

“You…can’t speak of it. You can’t tell anyone.” Orla swallowed another sob. Her face was red with weeping and a string of mucus clung to her nostrils.

“Here…” Hal passed her a handkerchief. “Dry your eyes, Orla. Tell me what happened. I have to know.”

Orla blew her nose, sat up and buried her face against her knees. “They were just children,” she said at last, raising her head. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “Just…children. They told us there’d be rebels there, but there weren’t. It was just…”

“Spirits!” Hal stroked Orla’s hair.

“A village. Just a village, like any other. They told us it was a nest. That the rebels would be there, hiding. Armed. They said not to spare them…that it would put an end to their resistance.” She howled with sudden violence, her entire body shaking. “We surrounded it, cut off their escape. Threw in brands onto the thatch of their crofts. Waited.” She raised her face, her cheeks shining wet with tears and her eyes once more fixed on the past. She was no longer with Hal in Colvé. She was back in Yegdan in dry, dusty lands as flames caught and ate at the straw rooftops of a few makeshift huts: as sparks whisked upwards into the dull afternoon sky and children began to scream, running, their hair and clothes aflame. “Oh, Hal!” Orla cupped her hands over her own mouth. “They said it was too late, it had been a mistake. They said that in any case, they were the children of rebels. I rode..as fast as I could…away.” She swallowed. “I couldn’t look, couldn’t stay. I couldn’t bear it.”

“And how…” Hal ventured to speak but the words dried in her throat, her own eyes clouding with tears. She pressed a light finger to the wound on Orla’s side.

“We found them, eventually. We caught up with them…the parents. And I…I wanted to blame them. For leaving the children. Not me, not us. It was their fault…” words tumbled from her lips now. A confused torrent of sounds. She made little sense. Hal understood only of a fight, of great losses to the army and the enemy. The Yegdanians fought with axes, spears and knives. When they’d opened Orla up they left her for dead, to bleed out into the sand and dirt. But the wound had not been so deep and she’d crawled her way out of that nameless ditch. Dragged back to life by her fellow guards, she’d spent months lying on her back, tipping between life and death. And eventually, she’d recovered.

The room felt somehow stale; the air weighted with Orla’s memories. Having cried herself dry, she lay slumped in Hal’s arms. Hal lowered her gently to the floor. “I must go, Orla. Just for a moment, but stay here. Sleep. I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

“Orla, I have to. I’ll race back here to be with you, I promise. You need to rest. Here…” she draped blankets over Orla, wresting free of her grasp. “Sleep,” she said. “Sleep now.”

The soldier’s eyes closed as if consciousness were too much of a burden for her to bear. Dragging on her clothes, boots and greatcoat, Hal slipped outside into the icy, snow-laden city, trudging forwards with her hands buried deep within her coat pockets and her eyes fixed on the slush and mud of the streets; her mind and heart numb.

***

“You’re late.” Beric glared at her from the top of the stairs with indignant eyes. “And you’ve got blood on your face.”

“I have?” She wiped at her skin, staring in dumb surprise at the thin red streak across her palm.

“What’s the matter, Thæc?” someone called over the clash of steel. “Cut yourself shaving?”

A chorus of harsh laughs rippled around the duelling hall. Hal stormed forwards towards the voice. Orla’s reappearance, her tale of horror, the way she’d clung to Hal’s wrist and begged her not to leave…it had left her raw, nervous, on edge. She unsheathed her sword. The laughter dried up.

“Hal!” Beric caught her arm. “I’ve told you before, I’ll not have common brawling in my academy. Leave them,” he added under his breath. “You should know by now that no good’ll come of rising to the bait.”

She bit her lip, staring in blind fury at the small group of men and boys huddled in a corner of the room, quaking with suppressed laughter. And then she relented, lowering her blade.

Though she duelled, it was with little enthusiasm. She could think of nothing but Orla lying on her floor back in Riverside, and of the gash which someone had opened up in her side. She thought, too, of how Orla – powerful, arrogant Orla – had been so reduced that she had clung to Hal as a drowning woman might cling to driftwood

“For the spirits’ saintly sakes, woman! You’re duelling like you’d never set eyes on a sword before. What’s wrong with you?”

Hal bent to retrieve the blade she’d just dropped, and caught sight of Orla leaning against the doorway to the hall. How long had she been standing there, watching? Unease stabbed and ground away at the base of her stomach as the soldier walked towards her, and her fellow duellists turned to watch.

“Who is she?” Beric hissed.

“A friend.”

“She’s drunk.”

“I can see that.”

Orla listed slightly to one side, surveying the room with a half smile twitching at the edges of her lips, her eyes bright with scorn.

“Get rid of her, Hal,” Beric growled. “Take her out of here. And don’t…” his fingers settled into the flesh of her arm until she winced. “Don’t bring your problems here again.”

“Hal!” Orla reached her, throwing her arms around Hal’s shoulders. “So this is where you’re hiding from me!” Her breath was thick with the reek of alcohol.

“I’m not hiding, Orla. Let’s…let’s take a walk.”

“You said you’d come back.”

“And I will be!”

“It’s been hours.”

Hal glanced back at Beric’s scowling face. “Come on, Orla,” she said quietly.

Gripping the soldier’s arm, she dragged her outside. Orla stumbled as they headed down the steps and once in the street, she tried to kiss Hal.

Hal broke away. “Not here…not now.”

“Why?” Orla slurred. “No one’s watching.”

“You never know.”

“You know, Hal…” Orla pressed Hal against the wall, smothering her with another kiss “…you promised me a fight once.”

“I did?”

“Yes. A real fight. Not this…playacting that you learn here.” She flicked her fingers dismissively in the direction of the duelling hall.

“I’m not sure that now would be the best time.”

“Why. Are you scared?”

“No. But you’ve just recovered from a serious wound. And besides, you’re…”

“I’m what?” Orla exhaled another breath tainted with spirits.

“It doesn’t matter. We can go back to Riverside and talk.”

“No!” Orla yelled suddenly. “No, Hal!” She buried her face against Hal’s shoulder. “I want to go back to the barracks. I’ll teach you how to fight. How to really fight.”

A few faces turned in their direction: curious, amused or disgusted. Orla was broken. The soldier hummed half-remembered refrains from marching songs as she leant against Hal. She laughed to herself and then sobbed, tears freezing to her face. And at times, she dragged the duellist into an embrace, kissing her openly and fiercely. Where once her passion had been tempered, now it ran wild and unchecked. And as they neared the barracks – a solid sandstone block of dormitories, training grounds and armouries – Hal started to sweat with worry.

“Come in,” Orla said, pulling her towards the gate tower.

“I don’t think…”

“I said…come inside!” she snarled, shoving Hal in the back. A pair of barracks’ men pulled open one of the iron barred gates and Hal found herself propelled into a courtyard surrounded on every side by high, pale yellow walls and the tower bolted shut behind her.

She scanned the practice yard. A few soldiers sparred with swords, spears or axes; tilted at sandbags hanging loose from poles or fired arrows at wooden targets. The snow had been cleared to reveal the wet, brown gravel beneath and the place smelt of horses, damp earth and leather. Hal’s breath spooled into patches of vapour before her face. She rubbed her hands together for warmth, and stamped her feet.

“Well, duellist…” Orla slapped her shoulder. “We don’t play with rapiers here. Either a sabre or a broadsword. You choose.”

“Orla,” Hal swallowed, “this is not a good idea. Perhaps when you…”

“When I what?” Orla eyed her unsteadily.

“Sober up.”

The soldier snorted. “You’re worried I’ll beat you even when I’m drunk?”

“No, but…”

“Hal, you’re not leaving here until I’ve had that fight. Here..” she drew a fine hilted broadsword from a stand and thrust it into Hal’s hands. “Take this…and this,” she said, forcing a helmet and visor down over Hal’s head and face.

“Orla…”

“The duellist promised me a fight!” Orla yelled out to all those in the yard. Heads turned; weapons were lowered. Hal’s heart thumped against her chest. To leave now was to lose face, but Orla was in no state to fight. And neither, she felt, was she.

“Orla, why? You’re barely healed!” Hal stared through the visor’s dark mesh at the soldier who slashed at the air with her sword, taking wide strides across the practice ground.

With a smile, Orla slipped on her own visor. “When you’re ready, duellist.” And then, without giving Hal any chance to prepare, she lunged.

Hal blocked, testing the weight of Orla’s sword arm against her own. In spite of her injury, the soldier was strong; her muscles taut and trained. They broke apart to sneers and catcalls.

“Take her, Orla!”

“Stop playing, duellist and fight!”

They crept in ever closer: a mass of bellowing mouths and shaking fists. Frustrated, her anger brewing, Hal attacked…and found her blows blocked again by Orla’s might and muscle.

But, she realised, the soldier was already tiring. Half drunk, half crazed, crushed by the horrors of what she’d seen and heard, by fire and children’s screams and her own grief, Orla’s strength waned; her sword arm shuddering as she held the block. With the lightest of moves, Hal drew away and arced her sword towards Orla’s waist. The soldier leapt back, slipping as she moved, and their audience lapsed into silence. Hal would win this duel: she knew it now. But to humiliate Orla in front of her comrades, in front of the men and women with whom she lived and fought…that she couldn’t do. She lowered her sword.

“Enough, Orla. Enough.”

Orla froze, her sword poised. And then, with a harsh cry, she ran at Hal who twisted with lithe, supple grace out of reach before swinging her blade upwards and into a frenetic volley of blows. Orla was breathing heavily: mistiming, misjudging the angle and sweep of her movements, until at last Hal cut upwards to conclude with the tip of her sword hovering before Orla’s throat.

“Enough,” she said quietly.

The soldier stood, wavering, her weapon sliding lower as she conceded defeat, silence mingling with the snowflakes which fell to land at their feet. With heavy, uneven breaths, Hal tugged off the visor and handed back the sword. She had no wish to stay: no wish to speak to Orla’s broken spirit once more that day. It was too much: it cut her to the quick. It rested like the weight of lead upon her own heart. Turning, she headed for the gates without another word…when a sharp pain cut across the backs of her knees, and she sank onto the sodden earth of the training ground. Orla stood over her, one fist raised, her visor up and her face fixed in fury and despair, her fist hovering just above Hal’s right temple.

Hal stared up at her, unsure of how or whether the day could descend into any further chaos. And then she caught Orla by the wrist and rose.

“Don’t come near me again, Orla. It’s over between us, I swear.” She didn’t look back. She couldn’t: even when Orla howled out her name as she slipped through the gates.

Out on the streets again, the bolts clanged into place behind her and snow soaked the leather of her boots. She shivered, swallowing down bile, tears, fury. She would have extended a hand to Orla; she would have enfolded her in her arms and held her until the soldier’s memories had lost their weight and she could sleep once more without terror. Instead, she’d found relief in violence and drink. That rejection struck Hal like a blow to the body.

A cold whisper of wind tugged at her coat and hair. She hugged herself, walking between the silent rows of houses, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the barracks. But another figure moved up ahead, emerging from behind the side of a warehouse, in a blue cowl and dress sodden with the slush of the road and her dark hair piled high up on her head. Hal cursed and ran.

“You…what are you doing?” her voice shook with suppressed rage as she seized the spy by the shoulder and span her round.

This time there was no fear in the woman’s eyes. Her smile was slow to rise, and insolent. “Your mother’s bidding. It turns out she’s more forgiving than you thought. She’s watching you, Halanya. So go on…threaten me. Do what you will. She’s anxious to hear all about it.”

“Just leave me alone. I thought I made that clear.”

“When things are starting to get so interesting? I don’t think so. The soldier returns from war…makes her way to your door… and then turns her sword against you. But where will this end?” She ran a gloved finger down Hal’s cheek and turned to look back towards the barracks. Hal followed her gaze. Orla was standing at the gates, staring down the street and watching them.

“There,” said the spy, and before Hal could push her away she’d drawn the duellist into a kiss, her lips cold and her breath warm.

“Stay away from me! Please!” Hal broke from her, rubbing her mouth.

“And now you kissed me. I wonder if she saw.” The spy nodded towards the gates. Orla had gone. “Your mother, I think, will be fascinated to hear that you tried to seduce me. But of course, I resisted.”

“Just leave me alone!” Tears clouded her eyes as she ran, until the street became a blur of snow and stone. And behind her, the spy’s laughter rang in peals, like cracked bells.

Like this:

This chapter is a bit tamer than the previous ones, so I’ve decided to post the whole version on my blog. The rest of the story so far is available on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/145657002-hal-the-first-fight-a-short-story

***

Summer tipped over into autumn, dying out in a squall of storms and dark clouds. Rain lashed the windows of the academy and lightning tore the sky apart, throwing into relief the duelling hall with its racks of swords, its long, bare stone walls and panelled floors and those few remaining duellists who trained until the dusk, Hal amongst them.

One by one they muttered their goodbyes and left until she was alone, the light all but gone, left with the whirr of her rapier as it sliced the air, with the panting of her own breath and the ache in her muscles.

At last Beric emerged from his little room with the smoking wick of a candle, watching her for a few moments before shaking his head. “I believe you’ve got a home to go to.”

“You said yourself – Riverside’s a dangerous place after dark.” She lunged at an imaginary duellist, twisted around and sprang back again.

“I’ll have to lock you in if you’re going to stay for the night.”

With a sigh, she lowered the sword.

“Don’t like giving in, do you Hal?” He grinned, but his eyes carried no mirth.

“Who does?”

“Sometimes you have to…you know. Let things go.”

Beric was sly. She’d learned that by now. For all his rough edges, he was quick to observe how his duellists weathered. A professional interest, perhaps: a troubled mind never fought well. But over the two years she’d known him, she’d discovered that behind his roughness lay genuine concern.

“And what would I need to be letting go of?”

He spread his hands wide and shrugged. “Well something’s eating at you, girl. When you’re not training, you’re moping. Is it your mother?”

With a hiss, she slid her rapier back into the rack and rubbed her hands across her shirt as if trying to clean them. “My mother…whoever she is…is no concern of mine.”

Beric swung open the high oak doors at the far end of the hall, ushering her out onto the steps. “Lying to yourself, Halanya.” He shook his head as she stalked past. “An ugly habit.”

“Prying, Beric,” she called back up the stairs. “An even uglier one.”

The rain had eased but the streets now ran with water and the chill evening air seeped beneath her shirt. She shivered and ran, skidding lightly over wet cobbles as she turned corner after corner, headed for her tiny room so that she could bolt its door against the world and sleep. But somehow, in spite of her exhaustion, Beric’s words still raced around her mind like a dog chasing a rabbit.

It has been two months since Orla left and no word. Not a letter…and Jools and Kris had heard nothing. Was she lying now in a ditch, drained of blood and her dead eyes fixed on those vast skies of which she’d spoken? Had she found a new love out there in the desert lands; was Hal a mere shadow, a distant memory?

I expected more of you. The jibe resurfaced, pricking at her thoughts like a needle. I expected more of you.

She let herself into the cramped chamber, throwing herself down on the bench which now served as both bed and chair. Hal closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. But though her body craved it, her mind resisted and she spent a fitful night of scattered dreams, in which she fought Orla on the Circle to jeering crowds, until Orla became Cara who slashed and wounded and finally killed.

The next morning, however, she climbed the stairs to the academy to be greeted by Beric wafting a letter before her face. Sealed with red wax, it had obviously endured a long and difficult journey. The address was blurred, the paper curled limply at its corners and it was specked with dirt.

“Here.” Dangling the missive between thumb and forefinger, he dropped it into her hands. “This came for you.”

“A letter…for me?”

“Aye, lass. And I’ll thank you for reading it in your own time. This isn’t a library.”

She stuffed it into her pocket. “I had noticed.”

“If, that is, you can read. You can, can’t you?” He followed her into the training hall.

“Very funny.”

She duelled all day with the letter crumpled in her pocket. It wasn’t from Franc Hannac, her only friend outside the city – of that she was certain. The address was worded in neat, tight characters, and she’d have recognised Franc’s scrawl immediately. It could, then, only be from Orla. Impatient to read it, she ran the distance from the academy to Riverside, threw herself onto the floor of her chamber and tore it open.

Hal

Forgive me. These last few months, I’ve thought of nothing but you. Your name was on my lips when I woke in the morning to barren rock and dull sky. I saw you in the flames of our campfire before I lay down to sleep. And in my dreams, I was still beside you and we made love time after time.

Hal rubbed nervously at her lips, whispering Orla’s words to herself as she read them.

Now I understand that I wanted you to give me too much, too soon. I realise it, and I’m sorry. But you see, Hal, From the moment I first saw you I knew I had to have you. And not being with you now is like leaving a piece of myself behind. You think me cold, contemptuous of what you do, but that’s the only way I know of masking my true emotions. If you knew what I truly feel you’d be shocked, Hal. I’m afraid for myself at times. The strength of this desire…it overwhelms me.

Hal closed her eyes, resting her head back against the cold, bare wall. Was it possible that Orla had written the truth? That after mere days, she could experience such fierce passion, such need? Of course Hal had dreamed of Orla too…at night her own hands had strayed between her legs at the memory of their love making. And in her own way, she’d longed for Orla’s rough touch. But she’d never woken and called out Orla’s name, or seen the soldier in every passing shadow. Orla’s words worried rather than relieved. Where would such passion end?

My pride was wounded. I couldn’t write. I took your refusal to come with me as a rejection. But it wasn’t, was it Hal? Changes take time, now I understand that. When I return, we’ll talk about it once more. You’re made to be a soldier. You’d love this life.

Hal swallowed hard. Would I?

When I come back, I’ll take you in my arms. I’ll kiss your lips, your face and hair. I’ll…

She read on. Each word carried greater heat. Each word stoked a fire beneath her skin, until she found herself sweating, despite the cold. Orla wrote of all that she would do to Hal when she returned. She wrote in detail and at length, until Hal could bear it no longer. She cast the letter aside, splashed her face with water, lay down on the bench and tried to sleep. But rest wouldn’t come and instead she passed another night of fretful dreams, in which Orla came to her and took her and then left her time after time; her face twisted into that habitual mask of scorn.

It wasn’t the first letter. Now there was one waiting for her at the academy every fortnight, sometimes more often. Beric handed them to her, silent and bemused. Hal was grateful that they were sealed, for each time Orla wrote it seemed her passion had grown more intense, her desperation sharper, her descriptions more explicit. Occasionally, grains of red sand would spill from the parchment when she cracked the seal, and the letter would be stained with dirt as if Orla had written it while lying on the ground beneath those vast desert skies.

And then, one day, they stopped: the torrent of language dried up. The nights had grown colder; the first wisps of snow floating on the air, transformed to slush on the city’s streets…and there were no more letters. At first, Hal thought nothing of it, almost relieved that she no longer had to bear the weight of Orla’s passion. But then a slow, creeping anxiety took over. Where was Orla now? Images of her lover…of her glazed dead eyes and stiffening corpse resurfaced and intermingled with those feverish dreams. Was she lying in a lonely ditch, as Hal had once feared, drained of life and hope? A bitterness formed at the back of Hal’s throat when she thought of that: a regret that she hadn’t been beside Orla in her final hour. Hal shed silent tears and thought of what she’d lost: of what might have been, of the soldier’s hard, longing gaze.

Until one day when the snow was piled so high in the streets of Colvé that carriages could not pass, and people shuffled with their heads down, buried beneath mounds of furs. And in a desperate effort to keep herself warm, Hal either fought or drank wine, draped in blankets and tanned hides. That was the day when someone thumped at the door to her chambers, causing her to leap up in surprise and pull back the bolts with caution, Franc’s dagger gripped behind her back. And into the room Orla almost fell, still dressed in her gambeson and leathers and far thinner, her face far more drawn and pinched and shadowed than Hal ever remembered.

Hal found herself shaking, not with cold but with shock. And as she stood and stared at Orla, the soldier reached for her, threading her arms around Hal and drawing her close. Orla’s hair and face were wet with melted snow, but her lips were dry and cracked. Hal cupped her chin and drew her close, bathing in the soldier’s hot, sour breath before kissing her and drawing her into the room.

But Orla shook her head, her eyes haunted and distant. “No, Hal.” Even her voice had faded, as if she were speaking from the depths of some great cavern or well. “Just…please…just hold me.”

Hal nodded, guiding her to the floor amongst the pelts and blankets. And they lay until the morning in each other’s arms, Orla wracked with tears.

“You can’t escape your own beauty, Hal.” Guiding her to the floor, Orla bent down and kissed her. “It’s in every fibre of your being: in your muscles and your skin. In the way you incline your neck or in the way you walk. It’s written in the creases of your eyes.”

“Stop it!”

Orla gazed down at her with grave, green eyes. “I mean it.” She straightened up and looked away. “My battalion leaves tonight.”

Something held Hal pinned to the floor, too stunned to move: a deep, sudden, desperate thirst for Orla coupled with the slightest, finest breath of relief. Disturbed, she pulled herself upright. “Where?”

“To Yegdan. To the southern provinces. To fight for the Emperor in his glorious war.” Her voice trailed irony. “To reclaim land for the empire from the desert and citizens from its people. It’s a different world down there, though.” She closed her eyes, fastening back her braids as she remembered. “We sleep beneath vast skies, wake to bird call and the wilderness. It…it helps a woman understand herself, it reveals her to herself, Hal.” She seized Hal’s hands suddenly, squeezing them in her own. “Come with me. We’ll fight together, train, eat, sleep. You’ll be free…free of Colvé, of the court and the city with its prying eyes and wagging tongues.”

Hal bit her lip, working at it nervously. She’d always wanted freedom, it was true. Always dreamed of releasing herself from the limits which life imposed. But was that what Orla was offering her? Would she really let Hal follow her own path and walk away, if she chose to, into those vast nights? And besides, there was nothing about strict military discipline, about the blind following of rules and orders which appealed to Hal.

This is where things hot up a bit which is why it’s not available on the blog. But here’s a short extract:

The tavern acquired a strange harmony, its patrons swaying and singing; shifting and regrouping. This was a world she’d yearned for, she realised. A world beyond rules, with a logic all of its own. Where she could hide amongst the crowds and sink into its shadows.

Orla’s arm pressed against her own; the soldier’s thigh was warm against her leg. She slid a glance over the contours of Orla’s bare arms as they flexed and unflexed when she raised her tankard or wiped froth from her lips. Against the murky light, the soldier carried the grace and strength of a sleek, wild cat. Her skin was tanned and weather-beaten where Hal’s was pale. She was a study in raw power.

“Alright, duellist?” She broke into a sudden smile and Hal turned away, aware of the blush blooming across her throat and chest.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“The ale.” Jools nodded solemnly. “Strong stuff.”

“Indeed it is.”

“You…” for once, Orla appeared hesitant. “You perhaps need some air?”

“I…er…perhaps.”

“Come on then, duellist.” Orla was already on her feet, even as Hal stared up at her. The moment that she stepped out of the tavern door, it would be straight into Orla’s arms. Everything would change. She’d witnessed time and again the desire lurking behind Orla’s mask of scorn. And she wanted now, more than anything, the touch of those powerful hands against her skin: the brush of Orla’s lips against her neck. Part of her rang like a chimed bell at the thought of being overpowered by Orla: of surrendering her whole being to the soldier’s embrace. And yet it also stirred a deep-seated fear: an anxiety which would not wash away. She peered down at the table, dragging her nails across its soft wood, aware of Orla’s gaze, of Jools and Kris now also silent and staring. Slowly, she rose.

Orla’s lips flickered with the barest hint of a smile, as if this were indeed a duel in which she’d just bested Hal. And then she led the way across the tavern, the palm of her hand slick and hot against Hal’s own.

They were outside once more, out in the late evening haze, although the heat had barely relented and a distant rumble of thunder hinted at the onset of a summer storm.

“Come.” Still holding Hal’s hand, Orla headed from the tavern and along the same channel beneath the eaves where they’d shared that first kiss.

“Orla, no.” Hal broke away. “No. Not here.” On the city streets, to the sounds of broken music and human voices? Here, beside a Riverside tavern crammed with cheats and thieves?

Like this:

Sooner or later, Halanya, you’ll fall so far that my spies will make no difference. The city itself will turn against you.

As mentioned last week, I started posting my short story “Hal: The First Fight” in full on Wattpad as it will – eventually – have some steamier scenes in it which probably wouldn’t be appropriate on my blog. Here’s an excerpt from today’s chapter and a link following it if you’d like to read the whole thing:

Heat now baked the streets of Colvé and the city stirred like a restless, angry dog, ready to snap at her heels as she plunged down the hill from the palace and back towards the duelling academy, aware that she’d promised Beric to be back by noon. But the main square was a heaving, confused mass of people and passing amongst them was like swimming against a tide. Hal squeezed through the crowds, her hand to her belt, aware now more than ever before of the hidden threats of cutpurses and thieves.

“Hal?”

Her blood quickened at the call of her own name, and she turned in surprise. “Orla!”

The soldier was sitting by the fountains which looped and cascaded at the heart of the square. Hal bent to drink, splashing her face with cool water, ridding the palace from her skin and hair. She rose, aware of Orla’s gaze, and of Cara’s words which still reverberated through her head. Unnatural. Freakish. Was that how others saw her?

“You look tired duellist,” Orla said at last.

Hal bit her lip. “I’m alright.”

There was no trace of that arrogant air which Orla had carried at The Emperor, but her eyes betrayed a bitter, desperate hunger which stirred something in Hal: a curious fusion of desire and fear. The soldier put an arm to Hal’s shoulder. “Perhaps you’d care to continue your exploration of Riverside?”

Orla’s touch was like the first heavy fall of rain in a summer storm. Hal sucked in her breath. “I have to practice, Orla. I promised my duelling master…”

The hunger vanished and Orla’s lips sealed into a hard sneer. “Well if you must, you must.”

“It’s not…it’s not that I don’t want to.”

“Run along, now Hal. Back to the academy. Back to the Circle. Or perhaps the palace?” Orla’s voice cut like a blade. “Anywhere you feel safe.”

She recalled her encounter with they spy. “Nowhere is safe, Orla.”

Hal tore away from the fountains, pushing on again through the crowds back to Beric’s insults, back to the hard, bare boards of the academy and the ring of steel. She would close the door, she would pick up her sword and fight. And Colvé would vanish from sight for a few more hours.

Like this:

Hal is young, naive and hungry for adventure: a former ward of the imperial court who has exchanged aristocratic privilege for the life of a professional duellist. A chance encounter with a thief leads her into the dangerous underworld of Riverside, and to Orla – a battle-weary soldier. Passions flare as summer heat bakes the city streets. But Orla is fierce and possessive in her love. Will Hal survive it? Find out in The First Fight, a short story…

OK so slight alteration to my plans with regard to The First Fight: I am publishing the first chapter on Wattpad, and you can now read that here:

However, I decided – for the time being – against publishing it on my blog. This is because WordPress require that mature content be reported as such, which would then severely curtail what I could do with my blog in terms of appearing on reader lists etc. As I’m aware of the sensitivity surrounding this issue, I decided to make it exclusive to Wattpad – for the time being. I expect to publish it elsewhere and in other forms in the future.

The story will be somewhat darker and will have more erotic content than anything else I’ve ever written. This is not a direction I’m taking in general with my writing – it just seemed to fit the mood of this piece.

If you’d like to get an idea of what it’s like – and the first two chapters will be pretty mild – then I’ve posted a sample below.

***

“Duellist, eh?” Orla stretched her arms along the backrest of the bench, and folded her right boot over her left knee. The languid drawl of her voice, the way she took up space as if it were owed to her – it all came across as a kind of challenge. “On the Circle? With the men?” her eyes hinted at contempt.

Hal swallowed, unsure of how much care she should take: of whether to answer the implied insult with her own, or to bite back her words. “Yes,” she said, steadying her voice. “Accounted one of the best.” Unaccustomed to self-praise, she downed a hurried mouthful of ale.

“Ha!” Orla barked. “Duellists. Players. Actors. Entertainers.” And the look she threw at Hal was a clear challenge.

This time, Hal struggled to hold back the irritation which pressed against her sides, struggling for release. “What do you mean?”

She caught the anxious glance which passed between Jools and Kris but ignored it, transfixed by Orla’s cool, contemptuous gaze.

“I mean that’s what it is. A show. If you want to prove your mettle, duellist…if you want to show me you can really fight, come down to the barracks. I’ll give you a duel which will have you running back to your duelling master in tears.”

So she was a soldier. “Why would I want to prove anything to you?” She leaned forward, her heart racing. Something about this whole exchange had shifted or altered: she felt the change but couldn’t place it. And in the slight gestures that Orla now made: in the way her shoulders shifted and the fine muscles of her cheeks flexed…in the way her eyes hinted almost at a kind of hunger, she knew that the soldier sensed it too.

“You’re right.” Orla pulled out a slim clay pipe, dangling it from her lips as she hit strike to flint and lit it. She closed her eyes, drawing down a mouthful of smoke which she exhaled directly at Hal. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. But to yourself? Now that’s another matter.”

Silence balanced between them as Orla smiled, waiting for her words to hit home, and Hal fought against the urge to lunge: to seize the soldier by her shoulders and shake her. They’d only just met and here she was goading, pressing, prying: with no true knowledge of who Hal was or the decisions she’d made, the risks she’d taken.